


Shropshire Lad

by stereokem



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, History, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Misconception, Pre-Slash, bookstore, flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: The first time Donald Scripps met Tom Irwin, it wasn’t at Culter’s. It was in a bookstore, in the history section.“You have a fanciful turn of phrase, Mr. . . .”“Scripps. Don, actually. And I’m afraid I had a fanciful schoolmaster to thank for that. It was inevitable that some of it rubbed off.”





	Shropshire Lad

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Based off 2 ideas from the play: 1) where Scripps talks about thinking that Irwin was a new boy, and 2) where Scripps talks about religion being “aging”. I know jack shit about the layout of Sheffield. Title is taken from AE Housman’s poem of the same.

 

On the side of town where Don lived, there was only one bookstore. The pretentiously-named Stratford-upon-Avon was a moderate-sized establishment with a selection of both crisp, new material and used books of many varieties. When he was younger, his parents made a point to take a biweekly trip to the shop, wanting to encourage their young son’s interest in reading as much as possible. When he was older and started working a part-time job, he had enough money to take himself when he wanted; but by then he was also old enough to realize that he needn’t pay for books that could be borrowed from the local library, so his adolescent self rarely made an appearance at Stratford-upon-Avon.

But it was just before the start of term, and he had gone ahead and retrieved the fall syllabi from Mrs. Lintott and Mr. Pottery. He would have gotten one from Mr. Hector, but his syllabi never proved to be very useful as he seldom stuck to them. The French master Mr. Pottery, on the other hand, went through his like a bible, and Mrs. Lintott generally kept a copy of her own on hand just to make sure they were on track. What was more, all the reading material listed in the syllabi of both was used thoroughly, and Don had learned that any head start he could get would make his life that much easier.

His mother was a great lover of all things French, and he was glad to find that several of the books for Pottery’s class she already had lying around the house. The required books for Tottie’s class were mostly available at the library (he’d made sure to place a hold on them first chance he got); there were a few on the recommended reading list, however, that eluded him, thus prompting his visit to Stratford-upon-Avon.

It was Thursday morning, and quiet in the bookshop. As he entered, Don gave a quick smile to the pretty girl behind the counter, and she returned it appraisingly. It was nice, he reflected, not having to trot about in the Culter’s uniform; he reckoned it made him look young. Maybe desperate. Once allowed to wear his own clothes—which were admittedly basic, and made him look like “an old man” according to Stu—he felt he achieved an iota more of respect from strangers who would have no grounds to judge him on anything but his attire.

Not that it really mattered—but every once in a while it was nice to be looked upon as something other than a schoolboy, a son, or a penitent sinner. Looking like an old man, while not ideal, was at least a break from the ordinary.

Shoving a hand in the pocket of his loose brown pants, Don whistled quietly to himself and weaved through the aisles of books, heading to the far eastern wall where he recalled most of the history texts were kept. 

Except, when he got there, he found himself amidst shelves of cookbooks, with not a war documentation in sight.

Disoriented, he went back to the front and asked the shop girl (casually as he pleased) where the history section had been relocated to. She smiled at him again and replied with all the respect she would have given a proper adult that the history section had been moved to the far right corner of the shop.

“Right past philosophy and classical literature,” she told him, pointing, and when Don craned his head to look he could indeed see in the distance a hand-made sign that read “HISTORY”.

He thanked her and set off again in the right direction. He was contemplating further how her attitude towards him might have been different if he was dressed in his uniform when he came to the set of shelves marked “History”, and found that he wasn’t the only person perusing the past.

As Don rounded the corner of one shelf, he caught sight of a young man with sandy-blonde hair crouched down by the bottom row. Thin fingers trailed along the spines of books until they found what they were looking for, and pulled it from the lineup.

Don caught sight of the title just before the young man flipped the book open, and he realized with a strange sensation that the book in question was actually the one Don had been searching for.

Ambling up to the young man casually so as not to startle him, Don began with a congenial sigh:  “Don’t suppose there’s another copy of that?”

The blonde head whipped up, and Don was met with a pair of soft blue eyes magnified by rimless glasses. The young man stood, revealing himself to be only slightly taller than Don and rather thin.

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” the young man replied, apology in his voice as well as his face. There was a light dusting of freckles over his skin, which held a natural sort of tan. His wide forehead had creased slightly with a frown.

“Just my luck,” Don muttered, not at all miffed. It wasn’t a big deal, really; the Thomas Carlyle work had been recommended reading only, and if he really wanted it (i.e., _Tottie_ really wanted it) he could always ask the store to put in an order for him. Or interlibrary loan. In fact, the latter was the obvious, far more affordable choice—

“If you’re interested, though, I saw a copy of Emerson’s _Representative Men_.”

Don blinked as his train of thought was interrupted. The young man was still watching him. His expression was odd: maybe a little earnest, though his eyes were both intent and unreadable. “Interested?”

“In the theory. The Great Man theory,” the young man clarified.  

Don’s eyebrows furrowed just slightly. He wasn’t _actually_ entirely sure what the Carlyle book was about—what little he knew about any of the assigned readings were based mainly off of the titles. He was a little familiar with the theory in question; though the idea that Tottie, of all people, would assign reading for it was a little nonplussing.

The bespeckled and freckled young man pushed his glasses up his nose, where they had been sliding down (based on the ease and nonchalance of the gesture, perhaps falling was their natural state), and continued in a manner that, yes indeed, could almost be described as earnest.

“Emerson is more eloquent about it, honestly. But you might also read Herbert Spencer’s rebuttal— _Study of Society_. Or _War and Peace_ , if you desire a bit of lighter reading,” and this last he said with slight sarcasm, which he immediately gave a slightly apologetic, largely rueful look for. “Tolstoy’s rebuttal is embedded somewhere in those many pages, if memory serves.”

Somewhere in the midst of that, Don’s eyebrows had abandoned their furrowed state and instead raised themselves in surprise. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You’re familiar with all of those?”

“Yes. I’ve actually read this too,” he held up the copy of Carlyle, “but I’ve misplaced my copy while moving.” At this, he gave a weak smile. “I’m new to town.”

“Well, in lieu of the usual committee and fanfare, allow me to welcome you to our glorious Sheffield. And, since decorum dictates that men of unknown quality shall be treated as genteel until otherwise designated, I suppose I shall further receive you well by not demanding that you hand over the book.” As if all this wasn’t enough, Don felt the insane urge (and submitted to it) to give a little flourish and bow.

The young man eyed him with something akin to wary amusement. “You have a fanciful turn of phrase, Mr. . . .”

“Don. Don, actually. And I’m afraid I had a fanciful schoolmaster to thank for that. It was inevitable that some of it rubbed off.”

Before Don had a chance to think about the implications of Hector “rubbing off”, the young man held out his hand. “Tom Irwin. I do apologize, but there is better rubbish than this,” he said, holding up the book as Don took his hand to shake.

“Oi. It may be rubbish, but it is _published_ rubbish.”

“And?”

“That ought to make it worth something to someone,” Don reasoned. “It’s obviously worth something to _you_ , even if you’ve already passed your judgment on it.”

Tom Irwin shrugged. “I need it for a class.”

“Oh? Where at?”

An expression whose substance was entirely sphinx-like passed briefly over Tom Irwin’s face. “Culter’s Grammar School. Do you know it?”

“Sure do. I’m there myself.”

Tom looked surprised, his eyebrows raising. It was, Don conceded, rather an attractive look. “Really? What year?”

“Sixth-form.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose even further, but his mouth curved into something like a smile. “Well, then, we’ll be working together I suppose. Although you seem a bit young.”

Tom seemed to realize the hypocrisy almost as he was saying it, because halfway through his sentence he grimaced and had the grace to flush slightly pink when Don raised an eyebrow and said: “I could say the same about you?”

“Yes, well—”

“Besides, that isn’t what people normally say about me. I’m told I look ancient among peers.” He laughed, knowing it sounded ridiculous. Only Stu told him he looked old.

Tom chewed as his bottom lip, considering. “You do have a kind of world-weariness about you, I suppose.”

_Religious weariness, more like,_ Don thought to himself, though he, for whatever reason, didn’t feel like divulging that particular tidbit of information to this interesting stranger. For one, it wasn’t really the sort of thing you tell people upon first meeting them, your little obsession with God. Second of all, he didn’t think telling Tom Irwin would impress him that much. (Though to not say anything might make God jealous.) But why should he want to impress a stranger?

Well, at this rate, they wouldn’t be strangers much longer. 

It took a moment of Tom staring in expectation for Don to realize that he’d spaced out.

“Sorry, what?”

Tom gave him a curious look. “I said, you seem comfortable here. Been at Culter’s long, I take it? Anything I should know beforehand?”

Don blew out a breath and gave a grin. “Oh, I could tell you stories.”

Don watched Tom’s face. It was both intensely expressive and very closed off, like someone who was constantly and unwillingly trying to hide something.             

“I bet you could. I . . . I’d be interested to hear.” Tom paused, and looked briefly at the book in his hands. “I saw a café just around the corner. Fancy a coffee?”

Don couldn’t help his surprise. Cuppa with a stranger? He wasn’t vastly experienced with this sort of thing, but it almost felt . . . _flirty_. Which was odd, because flirty was Stu’s thing; Don had always thought he himself hadn’t the self-preservation to chat anything up, bird or bloke. And since he hadn’t spent that much time contemplating the subject, he wasn’t really sure which idea he preferred, or if there was a preference to be had . He was only sure which fancy God might disapprove of.

Don’s surprise must have shown, because Tom’s face when red and his expression shuttered instantly. He pushed his glasses up his nose again and looked down in embarrassment. “Sorry, never mind, I—”

“No, I’d like to, it’s just—I’m meeting some chums shortly.” It was true; he and Stu were meant to go to Lockwood’s and drink the bottle of whisky he’d pilfered or acquired from God knew where. A sort of maudlin, petty back-to-school celebration. He wished, for a brief moment, that he hadn’t committed; coffee sounded like the much better option at the moment. “Rain check?”

Tom’s expression softened, the embarrassment smoothing out and giving way to the barest hint of a shy smile. “I’d like that. I am interested to hear an insider’s perspective on Culter’s.”

Don spread his arms, _a la_ “open book”. “I could give you a few tidbits now. Anything in particular you want to know?”

Tom tilted his head, considering. “I’m meeting with the Headmaster tomorrow.”

“Ah. I’m afraid nothing I say can quite prepare you for that,” Don said, drily apologetic.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Is he so singular?”

“Not at all. Quite ordinary for a man of his station, but prone to ideas of grandiosity. Best to be deferential, and as sincere as possible.”

“I see.” Tom seemed to consider this for a moment; then, he looked back down at the book in hand. “Well, I suppose I should go pay for this.”

Don gave him a grin. “And I’ll continue to ply these shelves for a poor substitute.”

Almost as if unable to help himself, Tom smiled back “Try Plutarch.”

“Ta, thanks.”

“Let me know about that coffee.”

And, with that, Don watched the mysterious Tom Irwin turn heel, head back down the aisle of books, and disappear around the corner.

Don stared after him for a moment. He was feeling distinctly nonplussed in a way that was unfamiliar and almost uncomfortable for him. This new boy was . . . well, enigmatic, for one. Charismatic too, for all his quiet nature. And quite handsome, though he had nothing on Stu’s rakish looks. In all other aspects, though, Stu had better watch out; this new boy might give him a run for his money. . . .

Catching himself, Don grinned at his own foolishness. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strolled a little further down the aisle, looking for this Plutarch fellow. . . .  

**-_-_-_-_-**

 

Don arrived at Jimmy’s undecided about whether to tell the lads about this new boy. It seemed silly _not_ to: gossip was, in fact, hard to come by in Sheffield, and Don was so rarely the bearer of it; it would make for a nice change, and something to talk about over the stolen beer.

However, just as the door opened and Stu greeted him with his customary rakish grin, Don thought better of it. Why give Stu the scoop and, therefore, the upper hand? It would do the sod some good to be caught with his pants down for once.

So, he, Stu, Adi, Tony, and Chris all sat around in Jimmy’s room, sharing the bottle of whisky, complaining and laughing and talking about shit all, and Don got slightly tipsy and said absolutely nothing about the new boy in sixth-form.

**-_-_-_-_-**

 

Term started Monday and, though Don did not relish having to contend with the Culter’s school uniform on the daily once again, he did invite the comfort of routine and work to be done. He arrived at the edge of the school lot with thirteen minutes before the first class starts, and was joined by a disheveled-looking Jimmy and an impeccably-coifed Stu. The three of them made their way across the concrete lot, the younger boys moving around them like schools of fish. Stu and Lockwood were joking about something, but all the while Don kept searching the sea of faces for the one most recently familiar to him.

But he was not there amongst the swarm of incoming students, nor could he be spotted within the halls of the school itself. Don attempted to not be too conspicuous about his searching, but it did not go unnoticed by Stu, who was accustomed to Don’s more-or-less undivided attention.

“What are you _doing_?” Stu asked jostling him by the shoulder as they made their way to first period.

Almost feeling abashed, Don withdrew his gaze from the crowd of students to the left of Stu and set his gaze forward. They approached the door to Hector’s classroom, and Don opened the door, gesturing Stu ahead of him. Time to fess up, he supposed.

“I met the new boy,” Don muttered as Stu swept through the door.

Stu paused upon entering the room to look back at Don. He raised an eyebrow in confusion, but it was a confusion of the only partially interested variety. “What?”

Don shrugged, and made his way over to his usual seat, Stu following him. “There’s a new boy in sixth-form,” Don told him, feeling a certain rush of excitement at finally admitting this to Stu. This should pique his bloody-minded curiosity.

But Stu merely scoffed as he pulled a notebook from his bag. It wasn’t an official subject notebook, but Stu reserved it for doodling during Hector’s many prosodic and polemic rants. “Who cares? There’s a new _teacher._ ”

By a twist of fate, it was Don who was caught by surprise. “What?” he said, in a comical echo of Stu’s earlier question.

“History, apparently, here for the short term,” Stu said quietly, eyeing the rotund and almost comically-suited form of Hector as it entered the classroom and took up its customary seat.

Don narrowed his eyes at Stu. “How do _you_ know?”

Stu rolled his eyes. “Fiona wouldn’t shut up about how _handsome_ he was—”

The classroom had filled up while they were speaking; Rudge, being the last person to enter (and just five seconds before the bell, mind you, _not_ late), closed the door behind him and took up his seat near the back. At the front of the room, Hector, seeing that all his boys were present, stood from his desk. Don reflect that Hector’s movements were, in a way, both light and laborious, as if the excess weight he carried around was a trifle, and it was only the amount space he occupied that impeded his movements. Like a blimp, almost, if one were to be unkind.

Hector surveyed them all with a rosy, cheeky expression. He opened his mouth, likely to embark upon a soliloquy about the start of the term when, the door to the classroom opened once more.

In stepped Felix, the headmaster, looking as prim and self-important as ever, his mustache even more gauche today that Don had remembered it being at the end of last term. He looked around the room once, his nose pointed upward in superiority, and then beckoned with an efficient (and posh) motion with his hand to someone just outside the door.

And in stepped Tom Irwin.

The first thing that struck Don was that Tom wasn’t dressed in the Culter’s school uniform. He was attired, instead, in a dark blue suit jacket with tan trousers and smart black shoes. Maybe he hadn’t had a chance to get the uniform yet? But he looked, for a wonder, older than Don had remembered, though not necessarily in age, but in experience. He was also, for some reason, carrying a briefcase.

Without thinking, Don began whispering to Stu, “That’s—”

And was cut off by Felix announcing:

“Pardon to interrupt, Hector, but I wanted to introduce Mr. Irwin.”

The _Mr._ , unmistakable, sank like a stone in Don’s gut.

Next to him, Stu said: “Yup.”

**-_-_-_-_-**

 

After trying (and failing) to filch an hour from Hector’s lessons, the Headmaster and Irwin retreated, followed by a burst of hive-minded nonsensical laughter from the boys. However, they found themselves being served up a new schedule as early as lunchtime, showing that their MWF late-afternoon physical education session had been replaced with “Entrance Exam Preparation” with the illustrious Mr. Tom Irwin. In fact, they would also have a lesson with Mr. Irwin on the Tuesday-Thursday block as well.

“Christ,” Stu said, looking over the schedule. The others groaned in agreement—and then turned to stare at Don, as he began laughing quietly at apparently nothing at all.

**-_-_-_-_-**

Don managed to pay attention in most of his lessons, not that the teachers noticed. (Most of it, except for Tottie’s class, was typical first day of term shite, which left the teachers almost as bored, if not more than, the students.) However, when his attention was not fully occupied (and it often wasn’t), Don’s thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Irwin.

And every time they did, he had to fight down the urge to laugh.

It probably shouldn’t be funny; he had, after all, basically befriend and quasi-flirted (maybe? Possibly? The more he recalled their encounter, the more flirtatious it felt, but perhaps he was just too proud of himself and making things up) with a teacher. Without realizing it. And, apparently, without that very teacher recognizing that he was fraternizing with a student, or even someone grammar school-aged. God, the presumption on both of their parts was absolutely staggering, though Don thought he was less at fault than Irwin.

In any case, it made the entire situation stupendously awkward. But maybe not so awkward as hilarious.

Stu gave Don several sidelong looks throughout the day. “What are you grinning at so devilishly?” he both snapped and coaxed.

Don shook his head and kept his mouth shut. He’d never hear the end of it if Stu found out.      

**-_-_-_-_-**

Their first lesson with Tom—or, rather, _Mr. Irwin_ — that afternoon went as well as could be expected.

Irwin was standing at the front of the room when they walked in, leaning on the edge of his little desk. The stance looked both pompous and insouciant, but Irwin’s cool blue eyes and his hint of a smile tempered his perceived arrogance, and belied the fact that his posturing was completely unstudied. His smile only wavered for the fraction of a second when his eyes landed on Don .

Don, still undecided as to his course of action, despite having brooded half the day about it, gave what felt like a comically insincere smile— which was not returned.

Once they had all sat down, however, Irwin revealed to them another arrogance, and this one was completely studied. And that, to Irwin’s misfortune, gave the boys all the permission they needed to hound him.

It could have been worse, Don supposed, as he watched his other classmates take turns at poking and cajoling the new supply teacher. All but Don and David actively and gleefully participated, though the rest took all their cues from Stu. Stu, for all his charm, could be ruthless, and had legendarily reduced a former supply teacher in media studies to tears. However, today he was not so bloodthirsty; he seemed more interested in trying to provoke a genuine reaction out of Irwin. As Don had suspected, Stu’s curiosity was piqued. In fact, he was almost coquettish.

Don watched the proceedings with interest. He didn’t think Stu actually liked blokes; but, he supposed, when you looked like Stu, you learned early to batt your eyelashes at anything and everything to get your way. Even if getting one’s way just meant making the new supply teacher flustered.

In any case, the entire lesson was almost a complete waste, except for the last fifteen minutes during which Irwin managed to steer them into a semi-fluid discussion of post WWI Europe. For all that the boys loved to poke fun at their superiors, they liked showing off more, and Irwin used that to his advantage and took charge of the last few minutes of the lesson. Don spoke up only once during this time to offer a sardonic comment about the Weimar Republic; when he did so, Irwin cast an inscrutable gaze upon him.

With a minute left in the hour, Irwin perscribed them a writing assignment, and asked for three pages, front-and-back, hand-written, by Friday.

The bell signaling the end of the day was almost drowned out by the chorus of groans, but the boys of sixth-form stood at the familiar knell. As everyone collected their notebooks and books, Don stole a glance at Irwin, who had sat down behind his desk; Don was amused to see that he looked exasperated, though was doing his best to hide it.

Don cast a glance to the rest of his classmates, most of whom were halfway out the door. He was half-expecting Irwin to call to him, ask him to hang back for a minute. Given that Irwin had seniority, societal rules dictated that he should be the one to make the parley.

Stu, perhaps noticing that Don was not mobilizing like the rest of the group, bumped Don’s shoulder on his way past. “Coming, Scrippsy?”

Don sneaked a glance at Irwin over Stu’s shoulder; he was studiously pretending _not_ to watch them. Was he going to try and pretend like nothing happened? _The ponce_ , Don found himself thinking suddenly.

Well, if they were ever going to talk about it, it was now or never.

“Eh, yeah, in a minute. Got a question about the essay.”

Stu barely gave him a backward glance and a shrug that seemed to say “suit yourself” as he walked towards the door. He did, however, spare Irwin one last smirk.

And Irwin, whose eyes had been drawn to Don the moment Stu said his name, was aware enough to catch that parting shot. He had the decency to appear unimpressed as Stu smugly sailed out the door. It swung closed behind him with a thunk.

Don waited a few moments after Stu exited before turning his attention to Irwin—only to find him looking as though he had been made to sit in something wet and squishy, both uncomfortable and humiliated. Beneath his natural tan, his cheeks and ears were beginning to turn a subtle shade of pink.

Unable to help his wry smile, Don said, “So, I guess coffee’s not on.”

Irwin looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. He glanced at the closed door before folding his hands together.

“This is . . . awkward.”

Unable to help himself, Don cracked a grin that threatened to become a laugh, which caused Irwin to look instantly affronted. The expression made Don want to laugh even more, and he attempted to sober himself; it was something he generally didn’t have trouble doing, though today was proving rather trying. He cleared his throat with a cough.

“Yes,” Don replied mildly, after a moment. “Though I think Shakespeare would approve.”

Irwin gave him a shrewd look. “Somehow, I don’t think the Headmaster would.”

“Aye. He wouldn’t.”

Irwin stared at Don for a moment, unblinking; then, his face dissolved into a pained expression. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked like he wanted to kick himself.

“Honestly, I feel like an idiot. I thought—well, I assumed you were a teacher.”

Don shifted his book bag on his shoulder and shoved his hands into his pockets. “And I assumed you were a transfer student. Touché.”

“I didn’t even think to ask what you taught,” said Irwin, more to himself than to Don. “I suppose I was just . . . enamored with the idea that I might have a colleague my own age to talk to.” Irwin narrowed his eyes slightly, though it was not mean. “I don’t know that you have such an excuse.”

Taken aback slightly, Don laughed. Evidently, Irwin was blissfully ignorant of his boyishness. “In all fairness, _sir_ , you look about ten minutes older than us.”

“Try ten years. At least .” He took a deep breath. “In any case, I apologize for the misunderstanding. I hope it won’t be an issue?”

There was an uncertainty in that question that made Don involuntarily raise his eyebrows. Irwin was wondering if he meant to make something of this. Don found himself a little affronted— he’d have thought it obvious that he wasn’t the sort to do something like that—but then thought of his friends, and conceded that, yes, Irwin’s caution might have been warranted.

In any case, this was not quite the Tom Irwin that he had met in Stratford-upon-Avon. This was not a new face interested in forming what might eventually become a friendship, or something similar. With that question, Irwin was establishing the boundaries of their new dynamic: student, and teacher. It was only proper, and what he had fully expected; but Don couldn’t say that there wasn’t a part of him that was disappointed by all this. He remembered the initial interest at meeting Irwin, and the potential excitement at meeting him again. Not to be, so it would seem. This was, perhaps, yet another instance in which God’s sense of humor sailed right over Don’s head.

Well, perhaps not. It was, as he had freely admitted to himself, rather funny. 

In a slightly world-weary voice, Don replied evenly: “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just thought I should clear the air a bit.” And, before he could think better of it, he added, “It’s Dakin you want to watch out for.”

The look that flittered across Irwin’s face was undecipherable, and his reply was very careful. “I . . . rather gathered that. He seems . . . like a handful.”

Don grinned. That was putting it mildly. “He is. But let me know if you want any pointers. I’d be happy to give them to you— over coffee, even, if you like.”

Irwin’s blue eyes went comically wide behind his glasses. He opened his mouth, but seemed only to warble soundlessly like a fish out of water.

Still grinning, Don turned his back and went towards the door. As he opened it, he threw a casual “Ta, sir,” over his shoulder and exited.

Stu was waiting for him outside the school. He was smoking a fag, cool and insouciantly. He noticed Don’s grin immediately. “Have fun chatting with the new man, then?” Stu asked, somewhat cattily, throwing the butt of his fag down on the ground and stubbing it out with his shoe. “What were you talking about, anyway?”

Don began walking across the gravel lot and Stu fell in step with him. Shoving his hands back into his pockets, Don simply replied: “Shakespeare.”

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Stratford-upon-Avon : Shakespeare's birthplace.  
> The Great Man Theory : basically posits that history is driven by the actions of heroes, or "great men"


End file.
